Sophie ignored the tray of cold cuts the cook had left out for her in her garden room, and reached for the phone. Celine would know—she would be able to find out. She was a good girl, and Sophie was very glad she’d promoted her.

But there was no answer. Celine must be out, enjoying the summer weekend with a boyfriend somewhere.

Sophie tapped the phone against her chin.Who else? Who else might know?

Of course. Judy Dean. She dialled her cell phone.

“Sophie?”

“Hi, Judy. Is this a good time?”

There was a pause. “Of course. For you, anytime.”

“Oh—thank you. I hate to bother you on Sunday.” Sophie, blushing and stumbling, explained. What Celine had said, and did Judy know; had she heard . . . did she have any ideas . . . ?

“Of course I’ve heard,” Judy said innocently. “The whole of Paris knows Tom is around. You mean you didn’t?”

“I didn’t,” Sophie admitted, utterly humiliated.

“I wonder.” Judy said in her singsong voice. “I can make a few phone calls for you. And then I could drop by the château, if you like. That is, if you want company.”

Sophie exhaled. “Oh, yes, please. Thanks so much, Judy.”

Judy brought her new car sharply, crisply to a halt in front of the main entrance; the Porsche’s wheels crunched on the gravel. She stepped out, careful to close her knees together, as she had seen Sophie do.

Pierre’s widow was waiting eagerly for her on the steps in front of the large, arched wooden front. No jewellery today, just her wedding ring, and her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders.

Sophie looked horribly elegant, even without ornamentation. Judy felt the adrenaline course through her again. By contrast, she had gone the whole hog.

Bloody Sophie. Trust her to make Judy feel overdressed.

She didn’t know why she had wanted to come out here. Only that she could never resist. It was like worrying a tooth. Though it caused her pain every time, Judy could not leave it alone. There was that curiosity, that horrible curiosity of the mistress, which had never left her. What was his family house like? How had he lived? What was his bedroom like? His bathroom? Their child’s quarters?

Well, she had seen the château now—all through it. Sophie had given her the grand tour. And her answers. Pierre and his family had lived—sumptuously. While she, for years, had been living in her one-bedroom apartment.

Judy had thought the apartment was quite the gift—proof of Pierre’s devotion—until she saw this place. And realized it was nothing. Perhaps he saw it as merely a convenience. More discreet than a hotel room.

Walking through the grey stone house, with its elegant rooms and its formal parks, and antiques that might grace the Louvre, Judy had felt her thoughts go into such turmoil she hardly knew what she was feeling.